Monday, October 13, 2008

It's Monday ...

... And I have no idea what to do with myself.

That's right: I finished my revision. It is done! Over with! Completed! That is, until my editor tells me to revise it again, which she will. The big hope is that it'll be a smaller revising job and won't so fully consume my life next time around.

So here I am, the proverbial turtle who's had her head tucked away in her shell for the last couple of months and is finally peering out into the light. And what do I see?

First, I see Will's room. It's impossible not to see it, since apparently a huge explosion has gone off inside it and now its contents are spilling into the hallway. In fact, Will's room appears to be waging a campaign to take over the entire house.

I've written about Will's room before. It is impossible to keep up with, no matter what game plan you put in place. You can invest in storage bins, divest of huge amounts of clutter, make it a daily requirement that he tidy up, it does not matter. Entropy rules in Will's room. Chaos is the word.

Here's my rationale for ignoring the bombsite that is Will's room: Constant clutter is the price we pay to have a boy so happily occupied. Nevertheless, at some point there are health code violations to be considered. Order must be imposed. Dried mucus must be peeled from the walls and Skittles unstuck from the floors. A girl can only take so much.

The other thing that won't get out of my sight-lines is the attic. Even though the door is shut, I can feel the mounting clutter pushing against it, just waiting to get out. The fact is, the attic needs a good weeding. It's become half storage space, half holding area. Don't know where something goes? Throw it in the attic. Think this toy/pair of pants/plastic thingy needs to go to Good Will? Throw it in the attic. Wrapping paper? Attic. Old magazines? Attic.

So, yes, it is time to go through the attic, stack storage bins, buy new bins to replace cardboard boxes, and fill the cardboard boxes with stuff for Good Will. I'm trying to motivate myself by remembering that Christmas is coming and we have lots of stuff that would make great Christmas presents ... for other people's kids. I'm sure Santa would appreciate it if I got this stuff to Good Will sooner rather than later.

Those are the two big things in my sights, problems I'd like to solve, mountains I need to climb. There are loads of other jobs, too--mopping and polishing the hardwoods, straightening out the mud room and the laundry room, and if I don't mop the kitchen floor soon, someone's going to get permanently stuck there.

So I have a list of things to do. Now, the question is, will anything actually get done? Or will I sit around reading and knitting, occasionally rising to throw a plate in the dishwasher, rehang a bath towel? My potential for utter laziness is great. Well, "laziness" isn't quite the right word. I guess "inertia" is better. I've been working, working, working, been a body in motion staying in motion ... and now I've stopped. Is it possible to get going again in another direction, the direction of a clean and orderly house?

If the past is any indicator, I will make attempts to get going, take trips to the Target to purchase cleaning products and organizational aids, and in the end, I will pull my head back into my shell, where it feels safe and warm, and nobody has stuck their effluvium to the walls.

Ah yes, my six year old likes to lie in bed at night and wipe his snot on the wall, in one place near his pillow. Also, both my boys secretly take textas to bed and draw on themselves when they're meant to be sleeping. The three year old especially is prone to coming out in the morning with stripey legs and circles drawn on his face.If you want to share the titles of your books that would be fine with me, by email? Are they in Aust? Will this one be in Aust? No pressure...!

About Me

I'm a writer and a stay-at-home mom who keeps meaning to mop the floors because I think it would make me happy if I did. I love books and music and writing, spend entirely too much time in the dentist's chair (I bet I have more crowns than you do), and used to think I was sort of bohemian, but now I wonder. No tattoos. Minivan. That story.